The thing I remember the most

About the Baltic winter

Was the old ladies

 

They would stand in the square

From incipient morning

To hate filled night

 

Their tables stuffed with wildflowers

Plucked from their gardens

A panacea

 

The redolent air

Heavy with nature

The ladies woollen coats and scarves

 

They were there whenever we passed

Selling the dying blooms

For a tiny sum

 

They would sing to us

Mellifluous and proud

Hiding desperation behind strong voices

 

One morning the eldest lady wasn’t there

The table flowerless

Like arid land

 

One more day the table stood

No colour to adorn it

We passed into the night

 

The next day she had been replaced

Our friend told us it was the ladies daughter

Straight from burying her mother

 

The sun rises

The sun sets.